


kick my brains around the floor

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Future Fic, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Post-Canon, references to canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 00:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: A transcript from an interview between Lorraine Broughton and Molly Baldwin, 2016:BALDWIN:So what are you at liberty to tell me?BROUGHTON:Vanishingly little.BALDWIN:But you can tell me a few things?BROUGHTON:Yes. But I’m an old woman, and the List was nearly thirty years ago. Some things have slipped my mind.





	kick my brains around the floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowkeeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowkeeper/gifts).



> title is from Queen's "Under Pressure".
> 
> I hope you like this, shadowkeeper! I saw that you liked characters being competent at what they do, and for some reason this made me think of Lorraine in the present using her spy skills. it mutated a bit. also, thanks to GlassesOfJustice on Discord for beta-ing this!

_An excerpt from A Tale Of Two Berlins: Unsolved Mysteries of The Cold War (2017), written by Molly Baldwin:_

One of the many mysteries that still languishes in the annals of the Cold War-era archives is that of the List.

“The List” is not entirely a misnomer—from what I was able to find out when I dug through the recently-declassified documents, it was the codename for a microfilm document that contained the name of every intelligence agent active in Berlin on both sides of the Cold War. In the wrong hands, the document could be an atomic bomb, detonating in the midst of Berlin and igniting the long-simmering tensions between the former allies of World War II. Every intelligence agent in Berlin knew it. Every intelligence agent in Berlin wanted it, for a variety of reasons. Every intelligence agent in Berlin was willing to kill and die for it.

And then, on the day before the Berlin Wall fell, the List disappeared. To quote Eric Gray, former MI6 intelligence officer: “It was as if a ticking time bomb had, just as it was counting down the last three seconds until its explosion, suddenly vanished into thin air in front of your eyes. The document, fought over by so many, had seemingly blinked out of existence, and no one knew where it went. As a spy, it felt like a failure. Then again, so did the Cold War, no matter whose side you were on.”

The circumstances of the List’s disappearance were vague on what little had been declassified from the official documents, but what I knew was this: in the days before the Berlin Wall’s fall, Agent James Gascoigne was shot dead, and the List stolen from him. What followed in the aftermath was a bitter brawl between spies, as they fought for the knowledge contained in the microfilm document. But who was involved? And what happened to them in the days before the List disappeared?

\--

_Berlin, 2016_

Time passes. History repeats itself, or it rhymes, at least—Lorraine steps off the plane in Berlin and gets into a car. She doesn’t fight her way out, this time, but she keeps a hand near her stilettos, just in case. She doesn’t need to, because the taxi drops her off at her hotel, and the driver, a young man with red hair and blue eyes, rolls down the window to call after her in heavily-accented English: “Welcome to Berlin!”

She stays in the same hotel as before, notes the changes. No more neon lights, this time—the room she has is lit by fluorescent lights and a chintzy nightlight. The exits have changed as well, and Lorraine takes note of the security cameras pointed every direction. She lets them see her: a woman in her late fifties, 5’9”, wearing sunglasses, heels, a long coat that puts bulk on her slender build. Frail, and old. No threat. Nothing to see here, move along.

Old dogs, old habits. The Cold War is long over, Lorraine long-retired, but some things are carved into her bones. Into the city’s bones, as well: it’s been more than two decades since she last set foot in Berlin, but though the wall’s come down, the backalleys and the dive bars of this shithole city have stayed, for the most part, the same. If she lets herself, she can retrace the path she took from her hotel to the watchmaker’s shop, now demolished to make room for a little café.

There is a researcher, looking into Cold War myths. Looking into the List, into Satchel. A truth-seeker, whose interest was piqued because of the declassified documents.

Lorraine walks into the café and immediately spies Baldwin, restlessly tapping fingers against a notebook resting on a mahogany table, horn-rimmed glasses slipping down the flat bridge of their nose.

She strides over, heels clicking on the floor. “Miss Baldwin,” she says.

“Mx. Baldwin,” Baldwin corrects, running their hand through a short shock of curly hair. “But call me Molly. You’re Lorraine Broughton? Take a seat, take a seat,” they say, with a warm smile, gesturing to the seat across from them. “Do you want a drink? I could get you a drink. Cappucccino?”

“Yes,” says Lorraine, sitting down in the offered seat. “And I’ll have a black coffee, if it’s all the same to you.” Baldwin is warm and happy, a field researcher in their preferred environment, a historian looking back in a café in a Berlin that’s been whitewashed, scrubbed clean of the blood that stained its concrete walkways, so long ago. Young. Naive. “I’m surprised you’re writing about the Cold War’s mysteries,” Lorraine says. “I had thought you would be more interested in queer history, going by your previous works.”

“Oh, I am,” says Baldwin. It’s off-putting to see them grin, with a smile so much like Delphine’s that for a moment, Lorraine is not sitting in a café with an overenthusiastic researcher. “But I’ve always loved a good mystery. The Cold War is rife with them, I wanted to see what I could uncover even just from the available documents.”

“Not a lot, I presume,” says Lorraine, and Baldwin droops.

“No,” they say. Then they perk back up, a fount of endless optimism. God, Lorraine can’t remember the last time she was this outwardly optimistic, so bright-eyed her eyes could be stars. “But what is there is interesting enough! One of the things that caught my eye was this file on something called the List—you were an intelligence agent in the CIA at that time, right? Could you tell me more about it?”

Lorraine’s fingers twitch towards her pocket, where her cigarettes sit. If there’s one change she’s come to loathe, it’s the laws that have banned smoking indoors. Some moments demand a cigarette to light, the burn of the smoke as she inhales and exhales. She taps her fingers against the table instead, and leans back in her chair. “Fuck,” she sighs, up to the ceiling. “I thought they’d destroyed all the records about that.”

\--

_A transcript from an interview between Lorraine Broughton and Molly Baldwin, 2016:_

**BALDWIN:** So what are you at liberty to tell me?

 **BROUGHTON:** Vanishingly little.

 **BALDWIN:** But you can tell me a few things?

 **BROUGHTON:** Yes. But I’m an old woman, and the List was nearly thirty years ago. Some things have slipped my mind.

 **BALDWIN:** That’s quite all right, any information you can give me is good enough for me.

_[BROUGHTON gives a humorless chuckle.]_

**BALDWIN:** I’m sorry?

 **BROUGHTON:** It’s nothing. Only reminiscing, that’s all.

 **BALDWIN:** The good old days, I’m sure.

 **BROUGHTON:** Call them whatever you like. They were a shitshow when I was in the middle of them.

 **BALDWIN:** Ohhhh-kay. Well. Um—how did the List catch your attention?

 **BROUGHTON:** It didn’t. I was assigned to the case after the previous officer in charge of safeguarding it was killed. Prior to that, the most I knew about it was that it was a ghost of a rumor. Not worth chasing down, I thought.

 **BALDWIN:** But your superiors thought otherwise.

 **BROUGHTON:** When someone’s willing to kill for a rumor, you start to pay attention to that rumor.

 **BALDWIN:** And just as quickly as the rumor surfaced, it just—vanished, after you set foot in Berlin. Do you have any idea what happened?

 **BROUGHTON:** Some. Most of it I still can’t tell you, but I can tell you this: start to finish, it was a wild goose chase. An especially useless one, after the Wall fell.

 **BALDWIN:** Okay. Did you hear if it had anything to do with a rogue agent codenamed Satchel?

 **BROUGHTON:** If it did, chances are, they’ve long since died and the List was buried with them.

 **BALDWIN:** But you know of this Satchel? And you admit that they found and took it for themselves?

 **BROUGHTON:** That’s the likeliest scenario. God knows none of us were able to find the bloody thing after it vanished.

 **BALDWIN:** Did you, or anyone you know, come close?

 **BROUGHTON:** No. Not so far as I know.

\--

The thing about being a spy is that it’s hard to shake the habits. Not very appealing to do so either, when those habits saved your life on multiple occasions. Maybe there had been a time when Lorraine didn’t scan the streets for anything trying too hard to be ordinary, a time when she didn’t keep her secrets close to her chest like a winning hand in a poker game, but if that time had ever existed, it had happened over a lifetime ago. Lorraine hasn’t shed the habits that kept her alive since, although she knows how to act like she did.

She steps out into fresh air after Baldwin does, watching them go down the street with a bounce in their step. They seem incredibly happy, even with what vanishingly little information she gave them. She wonders what scraps have been tossed this academic’s way, to keep them off the track of more dangerous pursuits. Whatever those scraps are, they’re not enough if Baldwin is looking into the List for their book.

Out of habit, she rests against the glass window, watching the people around her, the people across the street. Her gaze falls on a man of average height, in a dark leather jacket, his lips pursed in an innocent whistle. He’s been there since Lorraine got here, and at the time she’d figured he was waiting on someone judging by how he kept checking his watch. His eyes, however, are trained in Baldwin’s direction, and as soon as Baldwin’s fifteen feet away or so, he peels away from the wall and starts walking, briskly, down the street. So does another man, this one in a dark newsboy cap, setting his paper aside and falling in step beside his friend.

Of course Baldwin’s drawn attention their way. Lorraine hadn’t doubted it would. For a moment she considers turning on her heel and walking away, because one less person sniffing around after the List means one less person who might connect Lorraine to Satchel. Certainly the world could do with less too-curious writers.

Dark hair in the crowd, dark eyes, a bright smile. _You looked like you needed saving,_ Delphine, sweet dead Delphine, forever a rookie, says in the back of Lorraine’s mind. Damn Berlin, and damn the ghosts that nip at her heels in this city. Lorraine takes off down the street after the men, keeping them in her peripheral and keeping her distance.

Amateurs. They look over their shoulder too much, as if that will scare their tail away from them. Lorraine’s hand slips into the pocket of her coat, slipping her keys into the palm of her hand, between her fingers.

She curses, when the pursuit leads her past the remains of Delphine’s friend’s club. The building still stands, to be sure, but the club is long gone, and in its place is a boutique. Lorraine pays it the barest attention, overlaying the boutique with the scorched-film memory of the club for only the briefest moment before she’s off again, making up for the half-second wasted on memory. Damn, she must be getting old if that’s catching her attention now.

The two men duck into an alley, but Baldwin continues on, blissfully unaware of the danger. Lorraine speeds up the pace until she’s walking alongside Baldwin, whose eyes grow wide on seeing her.

“Not a word,” Lorraine says. “You’re being followed.”

“What— _How_ did you know?” Baldwin asks.

“Just walk,” says Lorraine, “and do what I say. Stay close to me, and I’ll get you out of this.” And hopefully this turns out better than Spyglass, poor bastard, did.

She glances around. Well, these people really are amateurs, if only two men are going after Baldwin—nobody else is following along, either as discreetly as only a professional can or as unbelievably obvious as someone who’s not quite as adept at blending in as they’d like to be. _That,_ thinks Lorraine, _or they’re far better at this than the initial impression._ It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

“Why’m I being followed?” Baldwin hisses.

“Later,” says Lorraine. “If you want to get out of this alive, you’ll keep your questions until later.”

Baldwin chews on their lower lip, confusion and disbelief flashing in their eyes. But, thank fucking god, they shut up anyway.

“Don’t look over your shoulder,” says Lorraine. “You already know you’re being followed. No need to check—they’ll be sure to hide. Just _walk_ normally and they won’t realize you’re on to them.”

Baldwin purses their lips, but falls in step beside her. Their eyes dart around, seeking out details that look even the least bit off. “How’re you so calm?” they ask.

“Questions later,” says Lorraine. She hooks her fingers around Baldwin’s elbow, and tugs them into an alleyway. “Stay out of sight, but stay close. Try not to get killed.”

“ _Killed_ ,” they squawk. She shoves them behind a dumpster, and takes quick stock of her surroundings: empty beer bottles, an overfull trash bag, a dumpster, the epitome of a grimy alleyway. Two men swaggering down, full of themselves, one with a nose that’s been broken one too many times, the other with stilettos sliding out of his leather jacket with, god, _style_ —amateurs they might be, but it doesn’t pay to underestimate them. Lorraine grips her keys tight, and tugs the collar of her shirt up over her mouth and nose.

“Get out of the way,” says the one with the leather jacket.

Lorraine doesn’t give him the chance to say more. Keys in hand, she ducks the man’s punch, and jabs upward, punching up into his jaw with the sharp end. He swears and staggers back, her keys sticking out of the underside of his jaw, jingling as he moves.

The other man at least has enough sense not to try and talk her down. He swings at her instead with his stiletto, but she ducks that first blow, then grabs his arm as he slashes out at again, spinning around to put his shoulder in between herself and his leather jacket-loving friend. Sure enough, the pocket knife the man tries to stab into her finds his friend’s shoulder instead, and she lets go of the stiletto-wielder.

He crashes to the ground with a groan, stilettos clattering. The man in the leather jacket grabs a beer bottle and smashes it against her head, and Lorraine reels back, the world spinning for a moment. Damn it, she needs to stop getting into fights at her age. She shakes it off, ducks the next swing, and jabs into his stomach with her elbow. The wind leaves his lungs for long enough that she spins and kicks out his knee.

A quick glance around—no one else coming, but the stiletto-wielder is getting to his feet. She picks up both his discarded little knives and kicks hard at his knee, still prone. It breaks under her foot and he screams.

Lorraine doesn’t pay him any mind, too preoccupied with the man’s friend recovering and swinging again with his beer bottle. She staggers away from that blow. It’s heavy, she’s figured out that much, thick enough that it survived the force he swung at her head with the first time. He’s new at this, she’s sure now, no one would grab a beer bottle and expect it to simply break over someone’s head so conveniently, as if they’re in the movies. Still, she’ll have to be careful—she isn’t as young as she used to be, she needs to end this fight quickly before they can take advantage of that.

Swing, duck, and she punches into his chest and then his neck. She grabs the trash can lid and bashes it into his face—it won’t do damage but it’ll send him reeling, and she needs to take care of his friend before he draws more attention with his screaming.

Speaking of his friend, the man’s trying to crawl away. Lorraine walks over and punches him, hard enough that he moans, then another punch to make sure he stays down.

A kick to her ribs sends her sprawling against the wall, and her vision swims in front of her for a moment before resolving, fast. The man’s fist cracks against brick, and Lorraine knees him in the gut, then bashes her forehead against his nose. She shoves him away, picks up the trash can lid, and slams it over his head, once, twice, three times, as many times as it takes for him to stop _fucking_ moving.

She tosses the lid to the side, then walks back over to where Baldwin is huddled, up against the dumpster.

“What,” breathes Baldwin, “the _fuck_.”

“Do you know who these men are?” Lorraine asks, jerking her head towards the unconscious men, lying on the ground.

“N-No,” says Baldwin, their eyes darting between both of them as Lorraine crouches down in front of their shaking form. Definitely a civilian, even more than Delphine had been. At least she’d known what the job _was_. “Did you—”

“They’re not dead,” says Lorraine, although in truth, she hadn’t been very careful in making sure she only struck them unconscious. She doesn’t care, either way, beyond how messy she’s sure it’s going to be. She doesn’t have the support of the CIA, MI6 or the KGB anymore, and considering what sort of subject matter Baldwin’s been poking around in, it’s likely former agents from all three will be coming after them. “What sort of questions have you been asking for your book, Baldwin?”

“I just—I was asking around after the List, that’s all,” says Baldwin, running a hand through their purple hair. “All that, it’s supposed to be in the past, the Cold War’s been over for _years_.”

“Some people don’t like it when their secrets get dug up,” says Lorraine. “I’d advise you take out any mention of the List from your book.”

“But it’s _declassified_ ,” says Baldwin. “There’s nothing—there shouldn’t be anything that could get me _killed_ , everything I’m working with and working from is declassified, isn’t secret anymore. All I do is write the facts and sometimes speculate.”

Ah. There it is. “How close do you think your speculations are?”

“Not all that close,” says Baldwin. “I’m not working with all the facts. At least they shouldn’t be.”

Even a broken watch is right twice a day. Lorraine’s mouth grows tight. “I hate this city,” she mutters, but she can’t leave it now that something is happening, that the ghosts have grown sharp teeth and started biting harder at her heels. “I’m going to get you to wherever you’re staying, and we’ll work on getting you out of this city.”

“I live here,” says Baldwin, getting to their feet and looking urgently around, shaken and scared. “My home is four blocks away, my files and my computer too.”

“Good,” says Lorraine. “You said you liked mysteries. Let’s see who’s trying their best to kill you.”

“And?”

Most likely kill them first. “Get you out of their sights,” is what Lorraine says, “no matter what.”

“Who _are_ you?” says Baldwin, as the two of them step back out of the alleyway, leaving the bodies in the grime and dirt.

“A retired intelligence agent,” says Lorraine, as truthful as she can manage.

“...for who?”

“That,” says Lorraine, “I can’t tell you.”


End file.
